


i don't want to see the world in colour

by Aethelar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Angst, Gen, battle aftermath, canon character death, using the one ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:05:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1410931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of Five Armies is over, and Bilbo searches for his company. There are things he has to say before it is too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't want to see the world in colour

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of wrote itself; I was trying to write a first chapter for a different fic, but then my hand slipped and Bilbo and Thorin stole the keyboard. I may yet continue the other story, but for now this can stand alone.
> 
> Also, I have a tumblr! Come find me at [aethelar.tumblr.com](http://aethelar.tumblr.com)

Cold. That was the first thing Bilbo was aware of. A chill that had sunken into him, digging through his torn clothes and nesting in his chest like a clammy, oppressive blanket. It reminded him of the Mirkwood, and he shuddered in revulsion as he woke. The world seemed strangely muted, the sky a dull wash of grey with shadowy clouds daubed across it in in lazy, unsettled strokes.

His shirt was damp from the morning dew and stained with dirt and grime and a dry, flaky substance his sluggish mind identified as blood. His hand flew to his side with a gasp of panic and he fumbled with the slippery buttons for a moment before giving in and just _yanking_ the material up to check his wound –

His fingers found the cool, smooth surface of the mithril armour and he breathed out a relieved laugh. No wound. Not his blood.

He sat up gingerly, bracing himself against the ground and bringing his knees slowly underneath to support his weight. His legs prickled with a thousand tiny daggers as the blood returned to them and for a moment he froze, awkwardly pushed in a crouch with his eyes shut and his teeth gritted against the pain. It seemed such a silly thing, to have survived a battle but be rendered immobile by sleeping awkwardly on his legs.

The pain receded enough that he dared attempt to stand. His head throbbed and for a moment he swayed, hands out and grasping for balance that all but eluded him. The battlefield was a hazy, dim plane, grey bodies piled haphazardly in the black mud. Nothing moved, but shadows shifted and trailed behind the bodies with every shake of Bilbo’s head, swirling shadows drifting through a fog of death.

“The ring,” Bilbo muttered, holding his hand before him and squinting at the thin golden band. He reached to take it off – it took two tries, his depth perception skewed and his coordination somewhat lacking. Finally, he gripped the warm metal in his calloused, battle-blistered fingers and pulled.

The world shot to vivid colour, and Bilbo cried out in pain. His hands flew to eyes to block out the sight of so many dead bodies, twisted orc flesh and pale elven skin and the vibrant red of a beheaded dwarf’s beard. He gagged as the smell of death hit him, heavy and cloying, and whimpered as the sound of the wind and the distant cries of grief assaulted his ears and reverberated through his skull.

The ring slipped back onto the finger and he gasped in relief as the world faded away, the shadow veil drawn once again across his senses.

“Thorin,” he whispered, eyes snapping open. He had to find Thorin, and Fíli and Kíli, Bofur and Ori and Balin and Bombur – images ran through his mind of his friends wounded and worse. A sob of horror escaped him as he turned to run blindly back towards Erebor, fear giving an urgency to his steps. The pain in his legs, the throbbing at the base of the skull, the banishment and Thorin’s hateful words above the gates; none of it mattered, as long as they were alive and well.

Still, he was not without caution. The ring stayed firmly on his finger as he crept between hastily erected tents; it would not do to be cast out by Thorin’s dwarves before he found what he needed to know.

The Ri brothers he found huddled together, boxed in by tent ropes and yellowing canvas. Their heads were bent towards each other, limbs drawn in close and shoulders bowed. Nori’s starfish hair was a lanky mess that Dori fussed with absently, and Ori’s left hand was a formless mass of roughly torn bandages. Bilbo nodded in satisfaction, and left them to it.

Bifur, he almost ran into. The dwarf was striding purposefully, his steps long and confident. He carried one of Bombur’s cooking pots, steam rising gently from the contents. Bilbo jogged beside him, trying to gauge from the gruff dwarf’s focussed expression whether or not his cousins lived. He thought they probably did, but then, he didn’t know how the dwarrow grieved.

He did not have chance to worry for long, as Bifur ducked between a pair of unfamiliar guards into a tent set a little apart from the others. Bilbo followed, twisting his body sideways to avoid disturbing the tent flap and alerting the guards to his presence.

Oin was inside, bent over a prone form on a makeshift bed. He glanced up as Bifur entered, his face drawn with exhaustion, and said something in Khuzdul. Bilbo couldn’t translate, but the tone sounded grateful. He stepped carefully around the pair, peering over the pile of furs and cloaks atop the figure on the bed.

A gasp slipped between his lips. His hands flew up to cover them and he threw a frantic glance to the other dwarves, but they did not seem to have noticed him. He wondered at how tired they must be, but was thankful for it as his gaze returned to the bed.

 _Thorin,_ he moaned silently. The dwarf’s face was twisted in pain, deep furrows on his brow marking the effort it cost him to live. His breathing was laboured, a wheezing, gurgling sound accompanying every laborious rise and fall of his chest. Beneath the blankets his chest was bare, the loose cotton of his shirt replaced with strips of linen. Blood had already soaked through the bandages, though in the shadowy world of the ring Bilbo could not clearly see how badly his king was injured.

Thorin stirred as Oin touched his shoulder. He brought his elbows back to lever himself up into a sitting position, but collapsed back onto the bed with a grimace of pain. “Bilbo,” he gasped out, and Bilbo started guiltily.

Oin shook his head. “He has not been found.”

Grief clouded Thorin’s face. “Look again,” he insisted, pushing aside the bowl that Oin tried to offer him. “Give it to those who will live, and tell me when Bilbo is here.”

Oin took the bowl back, refusal and resignation warring on his face. But even on his deathbed, Thorin was his king, and so Oin merely sighed. “As you wish.” His tone betrayed his thoughts; he believed Bilbo to be dead, and Thorin waiting for a forgiveness that would never come.

Bilbo stared after him as he left the tent, Bifur trailing behind with the remainder of the stew. Bombur must be alive, he thought; they wouldn’t let anyone else use his cooking pots if he was dead.

A muffled sob drew his attention back to the bed. “Oh, Burglar,” Thorin said, staring fixedly at the ceiling of the tent. “I have wronged you so.”

“And I you,” Bilbo answered before he could stop himself. Thorin jerked, biting his lips against a cry of pain as the movement tore his wound.

“Bilbo?” His eyes swung widely around the tent, searching for the hobbit. Bilbo stepped forwards, resting a hand on Thorin’s shoulder. He couldn’t take the ring off. Couldn’t see Thorin in full colour, couldn’t bring himself to know how much of the grey pallor to his face was real and how much was shadow from the invisible world.

“I’m here,” he whispered, because if he spoke any louder then he feared he would cry. Thorin’s arm rose, his hand groping blindly for Bilbo’s, and Bilbo turned his palm over to interlace their fingers. “I’m here.”

“How?” Thorin’s voice was a broken, harsh thing, and Bilbo almost flinched from the pain in it. “I sent you away, how did you come back? I tried to kill you, you should hate me!”

“No!” He held Thorin’s hand tighter, giving it a shake to emphasise his point. “Never, Thorin, _never_. I stole what I should not and I betrayed you, but I will never hate you.”

“Betrayed me?” Thorin laughed, a bitter, choking laugh that devolved into wet coughs. Bilbo brought his other hand up to steady Thorin, but could only stare in dread at the blood that stained his lips. “I betrayed myself, and I betrayed my kin.” A sudden panic gripped him and he pulled at Bilbo’s arms, almost bringing the hobbit down on top of himself.

“Fíli, Kíli, do they live?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Bilbo stammered, “I haven’t seen them.” Thorin did not seem to have heard him.

“They were wounded, I lost them in the battle but I saw them wounded.” His breathing grew faster, shallower, his agitation making him incautious. He coughed again, clearing his throat of yet more blood that looked black and damming to Bilbo’s grey tinted sight. “My crimes are unforgiveable, but they should not suffer for them. I have to right to ask it of you, but swear to me, Bilbo, swear that you’ll look after my sister sons.”

The speech drained him, and his eyes fluttered closed as he collapsed back onto the bed. “You are forgiven,” Bilbo said, cried, begged, burying his fingers in Thorin’s hair and turning his head to face him. His gaze darted towards Thorin’s chest, desperately willing each stuttering rise and fall to not be the last. “You foolish king, you are forgiven, and anything you ask of me I shall give. I will look after Fíli and Kíli, I swear it on my life and on my ring, wherever they go I will follow and whatever they need I will provide. I swear.” His ring burned on his finger, and for a second Bilbo wondered why he had sworn on it – but it felt right, it felt binding, and as the oath settled around him he felt his life shift and realign. The Shire had never seemed so far away, and he had never cared so little that he would not see it again.

Thorin’s lips quirked into something that may once have been a smile, but now served only to break Bilbo’s heart. “I knew you were too soft,” he breathed out. “But I am selfish, and so there is one more thing I must ask.” His eyes opened with great effort, the lids twitching under the strain. They were bloodshot, staring, the pupils blown wide and unseeing.

“Will you take off your ring, Bilbo?”

“Yes,” Bilbo said, because it was Thorin and he had promised. He eased it off slowly, bracing himself against the onslaught of colours and sights, but even then could not hold back a sob when he saw Thorin laid before him. Without the shadows to disguise him, the dwarf’s suffering was written clear on his face. His hair was matted, his skin mired with grime and sweat, his beard stained with blood and phlegm from his lungs. His once noble bearing was crushed under guilt and pain; he was a broken king, and little remained of his former majesty. 

Thorin smiled, his eyes calm as they rested on Bilbo. His lips parted to say something, but the words never formed; with a silent, gentle breath, the king under the mountain was no more. Bilbo shook his head, pressing his knuckles against his mouth in an attempt to keep his sobs from spilling over. He stared at Thorin, Thorin his friend, Thorin his companion and his leader, until his vision blurred with tears. He saw again Thorin’s last smile and it overlaid all his others, smiles on the carrack and at the door to Erebor, smiles when Bilbo approached the cell in the elven dungeons and when he pulled them from barrels in the river, smiles in firelight and daylight and torchlight and the glimmering, grey light of his ring.

He feared he would never again be able to think of Thorin’s smile without seeing it fade into that last smile, broken and peaceful all at once.

He didn’t know when he had slipped the ring back on, but he was thankful for it as he huddled on the floor and cried. He didn’t think he would be ready to face colours again for a long while yet.


End file.
